


nights like these.

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23126680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a late night expedition to the store, just the two of you.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	nights like these.

**Author's Note:**

> More fluff. Hopefully, this works to distract you for a hot minute like it did me. 

—

There are certain little pockets of the world, blips in time and space, that exist a step to the left of habitual life as we’ve grown to know it. They’re moments with a different feel than the rest of any given day; that stand out not just because they move slower or the air that surrounds them feels dreamier — more indistinct but in a good way — but as well because they are bright sparks in the sometimes dreary tedium of life. 

Most often, they’re exceptionally unexceptional, these momental blips. They have more to do with the matter of the thing than the thing itself — it’s what exists within the moment that makes it, and the body that stands beside yours while you’re there. 

They’re the in-between scenes that happen under winking, too-early morning skies; they’re touches under tables, whispers in crowded rooms, and strolls arm-in-arm in the rain. They blossom in all but abandoned bookshops and pop up in hotel rooms reserved for surprise visits. They creep about you while you wander around museums and sneak up on in you the aisles of the supermarket late at night. 

On nights, and in moments, like tonight.

He’s hunched over the trolley, the one that’s half full with the kinds sugary delights that his sweet-tooth craves and his metabolism all but discards. You’re trying to contribute the odd item you know you actually need; bits like pasta and milk, porridge and toothpaste.

Every time you wander into his line of sight, he flashes you a coy little smile. It’s ridiculous that it — that he — still makes you giddy each time, but you’ve stopped being surprised by the effect of him on you. And besides, you have your own ways of making his heart skip, too. All it takes is a gentle stroke of your hand over the small of his back as you crisscross behind him in the aisle to coax out a dimple from beneath the shadow of his scruff. 

He sneaks up on you while you’re considering the yoghurts; the trolly sidling right up behind you before his body presses into yours, his one arm snaking around your waist so he can trap you against him, just for a second, and steal a kiss. You chuckle at him and the conspiratorial look he casts over his shoulder before he dips again, his lips smiling against yours. 

“Blueberry?” He suggests cheekily while his free hand creeps towards the tub he wants. You shrug and then poke him playfully in the ribs, earning yourself a glare that you assume was supposed to serve as a warning (but very much did not), before he placed the tub in the trolley with a pleased little nod. “What else have you got on that list of yours, huh?”

The store was all but empty — it’s just the two of you, the night-staff, and a couple of people rambling in and out after the pub or the end of their shifts. And so he’s feeling bold, you think. Bolder than usual anyway, when it comes to how he is with you in unfamiliar places.

You glance at the scrap of paper in your hand and then back up at him. “Salt.” You deadpan, eyeing him curiously as he reaches out and tries to coax you into the space that’s left between him and the trolly handle. 

“Salt, uh-huh.” He’s got a thoughtful look on his face, like he’s still trying to work out how he’s going to manage torturing you and pushing the cart at the same time. “Come ‘ere.” 

“You want me to get in and you can chauffeur me around?” You’re joking, but he looks like he’s considering it, and so before he can get any more ideas, you step towards him. “And tea.”

“That’s it?” He nips lightly at your nape before pushing off so you’re moving again, together, towards the aisle with all the caffeine. 

“Why? Have you got plans?” You crane around and up to look at him, just catching the quick — and vaguely devilish — quirk of his eyebrows.

“I’ve got some plans, yeah.” He moves even closer to you somehow, his chest pressing into your back as he reaches over you to retrieve a box of his beloved tea. “Wanna hear about ‘em?”

He sounds so throughly pleased with himself, and you know he can see the slightly stunned look on your face in the reflection of the windows just beyond you — just beyond you, the registers, and the quietly amused woman trying not to watch you both from her station at the register. “Andy…” You warn, but it’s hopeless. You could not sound less convincing, and he’s got that determined look on his face he gets sometimes; the one that he reserves only for you. 

“All done?” He looks down at you, smiling dangerously, waiting patiently. Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. 

“Yep,” You try to sound nonchalant, but you manage only to sound breathless and wanting. 

“Let’s get you home then, shall we?”

“Me, and the tea?”

“Obviously, yes. You and Barry’s. We’ll make a night of it.”

—


End file.
